Wise Men at Their End Know Dark is Right
by K. Drake
Summary: "A Warden knows when his time has come. His life begins to blur at the edges. Time takes on a slippery quality, hours expand and contract. The dreams are endless. Then there is the call, a persistent unrest that underpins every thought, and only begins to ease when the Warden's thoughts turn to the Deep Roads, and to what dwells there."
1. Chapter 1

_Orzammar_. Alistair had not been there in decades, not since…the Blight. Thirty years ago. Had it really been that long? Had the hills gotten steeper? He seemed to recall he had run up them back then, armor and all. He stopped, panting. His knee twinged unpleasantly.

"Are you all right, your Majesty?" his companion asked. Alistair was accompanying a courier across the Frostback Mountains; the man made the journey regularly and knew the shortest path. The majority of travel had been on horseback, but the trail here was so narrow and slippery that they had deemed it safer to dismount and lead their mounts single file.

"I'm fine," said Alistair. "And I'm not a king anymore, remember? Alistair is fine. If that feels too familiar, Warden will do," he reminded him, for the umpteenth time.

"Yes, your—Warden." The man continued to fix Alistair with a worried gaze. _Well, I probably do look frightful._ He remembered the glimpse he had caught of himself in one of the palace mirrors. How pale he had been, how deeply etched the lines around his hooded, bloodshot eyes. That night, the nightmares had begun.

When they finally spotted the stone dwarf sentinels looming above them that marked the entrance to the city, and heard the accompanying sounds of the bustling bazaar that surrounded it, Alistair gave a sigh of relief. It died on his lips when he saw the official convoy waiting outside to escort him through Orzammar's massive gates.

"On behalf of King Bhelen, we greet you, Alistair, king of Ferelden."

"Immanokinganymore," mumbled Alistair, reddening. Traders had stopped to gawk at the commotion.

"I beg your pardon, your Majesty?"

"I have abdicated the throne in favor of my son, Maric," Alistair explained. "Messengers have been sent to the various kingdoms alerting them of the succession, and I would imagine your Ambassador Thyrza has made a report."

"Regardless, your Majesty, you are welcome in Orzammar. You have ever been a friend to King Bhelen, and he will give you the kingly welcome that befits your great deeds," said the dwarf smoothly.

"Right then," said Alistair. "I'll just…be there in a moment." He bid a hurried goodbye to the courier, and thanked him for his help, pressing a small pouch of gold into the man's hand.

"You're too kind, your Majesty," the courier stammered. "Good luck. When does your Majesty expect to return to Denerim?"

Alistair gave him an odd look. "I won't be returning," he said at last.

"Of course, it's not my place to question your Majesty," said the man humbly. Alistair realized that the man thought he was lying, that the king was somehow displeased and would seek to return home escorted by somebody more worthy.

"No, really." He considered explaining further, but decided it was of no use. What did it matter, anyway? He would never see this man again, and he was exhausted. Moreover, there would be no rest, for he would be expected to play the guest to Bhelen's host. This was exactly the sort of thing he had hoped to avoid when he had left Denerim.

His wife hadn't wanted him to leave. "I don't understand, Alistair," she said, her Orlesian accent still pronounced, despite having lived in Ferelden for over twenty years. Alistair suspected she did it on purpose. "Why do you want to go?"

"It's not about what I want," Alistair told her. "It's about what is. I am dying, Mévéna. Soon the taint will overtake me, and I will go mad. I'd like to spare you that."

"Surely, zer must be somesing we can do. We will contact ze Circle, zey must know how to 'elp."

"They don't." To his surprise, Mévéna's face crumpled, and she began to cry.

"I don't want you to die, Alistair," she said. Alistair had no illusions that his wife was madly in love with him. Still, living with someone for twenty years is usually sufficient to become accustomed to his presense, to equate it with the pleasure and comfort of being home.

"I know," he said gently. "But everyone does it, you know. Die, I mean. In a way, I'm lucky; I get to choose my death. Some people are just surprised, aren't they? And then they get found dead with really silly looks on their faces. Very undignified."

This just made her sob all the more. He gathered her gently into his arms. Mévéna was fifteen years younger than he; she had been in Val Royeaux during the last Blight, a pampered and sheltered princess whose closest experience to war was a festival tourney. It couldn't have been easy for her to leave all that in order to cement an alliance between Orlais and Ferelden with her marriage to Ferelden's new king.

In the end, her protests were in vain. As were those of the Revered Mother, and Alistair's advisers. The worst, though, was saying goodbye to his son.

"I wish you wouldn't leave, Father," said the boy. The man, really; he was twenty-four. Alistair could never stop thinking of him as a small child, with golden curls and his mother's celadon eyes, sending his nurses into conniptions with his propensity to scrabble onto high surfaces and then jump off them. The curls had darkened, but the eyes were the same limpid green, lined all around with a fringe of dark lashes that made serving maids and arlessas alike sigh.

"It is my duty as a Grey Warden to fight Darkspawn. And as a Warden who has outlived many of my brethren, it is my _honor_ to continue the vigil that they died keeping."

"I know," Maric said softly. He was trying to be brave, which made him look very young and vulnerable. "It's just…I—we love you."

Alistair felt his heart clench with pain. "One day, you'll make a choice," he told his son. "Instead of love, you'll choose to do what is right. It will be the hardest thing you ever do, but you'll do it anyway, because you must." _And you will regret it for the rest of your life,_ he didn't say. He could see from Maric's expression that the young man didn't understand. How could he? You could never really comprehend something until it happened to you, and by then it was too late.

"I don't want you to die alone."

"I won't be alone," said Alistair.

In truth, he would have stayed with them, if he could have. But a Warden knows when his time has come. His life begins to blur at the edges. Time takes on a slippery quality, hours expand and contract. The dreams are endless. There is the call, a persistent unrest that underpins every thought, and only begins to ease when the Warden's thoughts turn to the Deep Roads, and to what dwells there. Alistair sat awake at night, trying to stave off sleep in order by reading diplomatic reports or petitions from the Bannorn, so that he didn't have to dream. One night, he drifted off in spite of himself, and awoke from a dream of fighting an ogre to find his study destroyed, a servant cowering in a corner. Alistair realized with shock and guilt that he could have killed the man, and from then on, he knew he could not be trusted. He began making preparations to leave at once.

Orzammar was smaller than he remembered, perhaps because he had not yet much traveled before the first time he visited, and so had nothing to with which to compare it. Dinner with Bhelen had been blessedly brief. He had told the dwarf what he was intending. Bhelen had seemed surprised, but hadn't bothered to try and dissuade him.

"She's here, you know," said Bhelen.

"Who?" asked Alistair, although he already knew. His pulse quickened.

"The Warden," said Bhelen simply. To everyone, she was always _the_ Warden, the epitome of her order, the first name that came to mind when the words "Grey Wardens" or "Archdemon" or "Blight" were mentioned. Cybele, the bloody _Hero_ of bloody Ferelden, for Maker's sake. Before he had been king in his own right, Alistair had simply been the other Warden. Not that he had minded. He almost longed for those days, or at least their simplicity, when their path had been clear and their purpose sure. He had never wished that he hadn't met Cybele. He wasn't sure she felt the same way about him.


	2. Chapter 2

"They were here," said the dwarf guard captain Alistair encountered the next day when he left the city proper and went to the guard outpost by the Deep Roads, the extensive network of tunnels and old thaigs that had once been occupied by thousands of dwarves. "They resupplied and headed back out yesterday. Small group, just four of them. And a golem."

This gave Alistair pause. "A golem?"

"A cheeky one. Threatened to squish me."

"That sounds like Shale."

"Yes, I think that's what she called it."

"Lady Cybele, you mean?"  
"Yes, the Warden. She leads the group."

Soon, he would be seeing her. It was a vertiginous idea, and he had to stand still for a moment to keep his bearings.

The Deep Roads were quiet. Alistair was used to the sound of birdsong and leaves rustling. Here, there was only the faintest murmur of water, perhaps from some faraway underground stream. The Warden group couldn't be more than a day out, the dwarf captain had said, and if he traveled quickly he should be able to pass them. The only problem was, he didn't know which way they had gone.

When he came to a fork in the road, he picked a direction arbitrarily, thinking he could backtrack if it seemed unpromising. The path led to a deserted thaig. Alistair poked around in a desultory manner, but there was no one in evidence. Weary after the day's journey, he was considering the abandoned homes appraisingly, looking for a suitable place to rest, when he froze.

Someone was watching him. Or something. Whatever it was, it had just ducked into a small alcove behind him. Slowly, he reached for his sword.

"I wouldn't," said a voice.

He turned around.

The woman standing behind him gasped.

"Cybele," he said.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried. He had hoped that they might remain friends—a delusion brought on by desperation, he realized later. But hadn't she wanted him to be king? Hadn't she practically thrust him onto the throne and jammed a crown onto his head, by the sheer force of her own will?

"How do you know I can be a good king?" he had asked her.

"Because you don't want the crown," she replied. "You know what a great responsibility it is to rule over a people. Where others see glory, you only see duty. Pride is a dangerous thing. I have never been a monarch, but I know what it is to command great power, and to be tempted to use that power in a self-serving manner. I know you, and you will never abuse your station to satisfy a whim. Can the same be said of Anora, or any other noble? I don't think so."

It had taken him a long time to admit how angry she had made him, and he wondered if that was part of the reason he had rejected her, those years ago. It had seemed so clear then: she _was_ a mage, and she _wasn't_ a noble, and there was no way he could press his tenuous claim to the throne without the support of the Bannorn and the Chantry, neither of which he would have if he married Cybele. He didn't want to be king, but if he had to be king, he was going to do his duty to king—which was himself, now, right—and country. Besides that, there was the matter of an heir. At the time, he had been fairly certain—and so far, this theory had not been disproved—that two Grey Wardens couldn't conceive a child together. Assuming the throne without being able to offer the stability of a successor would have been unconscionable. There had only been one option.

That didn't mean it hadn't been the most painful thing he had ever done. She, too, knew it was the right thing, but she never forgave him. Her ultimate revenge had been leaving him to hold the battle lines while she and the Orlesian Grey Warden Riordan ventured into the city to slay the Archdemon on their own.

"You can't come," she had informed him imperiously, as if it were she who had just been declared sovereign.

When he had tried to argue, she spat, "You're _the king_, Alistair. Your life isn't your own anymore; it belongs to Ferelden. You can't just let yourself die. Someone has to be here afterwards, to rebuild." He winced as she was threw his own words back in his face. _It's not my choice, Cybele…my life isn't my own…._

"What does anyone need me for?" she continued ruthlessly. "I was as good as dead when I left the Circle anyway. No one will miss me. They'd much rather have a dead hero than a live mage. You're different. They need you to take care of them, to lead them out of this. This is not up for discussion, Alistair. If you won't stay willingly, I will _make_ you."

She hadn't been bluffing. Wynne—of all people! The betrayal still stung—had weakened him with a spell, and he was powerless to stop Oghren from tying him up and placing him under guard. There he had waited for hours, sick with worry, until finally the news came that Riordan had slain the Archdemon and the Blight had been ended.

And hadn't he showed his good faith by showering her with honors and titles? Warden commander. _Arlessa _of Amaranthine. Yet after only a few years at her post, Cybele had disappeared, leaving Oghren in charge. Alistair used all the resources at his disposal to find her, and located her in Kirkwall—apparently she had some distant relatives there. He sent her letters, but received no reply. More than one of his messengers returned and confessed that he had witnessed Cybele toss the letter into the fire without opening it. A few months later, she was gone again. From then on, he only knew what rumor told him: she was living in Antiva; she had been spotted boarding a ship bound for Par Vollen. The years passed. He married Mévéna. Maric was born.

Now, all that seemed a stop-gap, a brief pause before his real life resumed, for here again she stood before him, as if she had never left his side. She looked older, of course. They both did. But she had the same ivory skin, the same pale hair. Not blonde anymore, he realized abruptly, but pearl white. She held herself with the same grace, although at the moment she was clearly agitated, practically vibrating with emotion.

"Cybele, what is it?" A figure—the one Alistair had sensed—reemerged from the shadows.

Cybele found her voice. "Nothing," she said.

"Who is that?" the figure asked, drawing closer and revealing himself to be a lanky man in his fifties. He had a curiously boneless way of moving, and Alistair noticed he was wearing a bandolier bristling with vials. He stopped when he saw Alistair. "Is that…?"

"The king? Yes, I believe so. What brings you here, your Majesty?"

"It's just Alistair now, Cybele," he said. "I'm not the king anymore."

"What?" asked Cybele sharply.

"I'm retired. I abdicated the throne to my son Maric. I wasn't deposed or anything," he explained hastily, feeling foolish.

"I didn't know you could just quit being king," said the strange man musingly. Alistair glared at him. He looked exceedingly familiar. Where had he seen him before?

"You can't," Cybele snapped. "This is clearly some sort of mistake. We will escort _King _Alistair back to the guard outpost."

"You're not listening to me," said Alistair. "I'm not the king. I'm a regular Warden again. Just like old times," he added, with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

Cybele gave him a withering look.

"Cybele," he said, his voice catching. "You know why I've come." It was still there, that attraction between them. He had a strong urge to grab her. She, too, looked like she was restraining herself. _I think she wants to hit me_, Alistair thought. _Or kiss me. Possibly both. Makes it hard to decide whether I should dodge or not._

The man was staring wide-eyed at the two of them, eyes darting back and forth.

"You're Nathaniel Howe," blurted Alistair, remembering.

Nathaniel bowed. "At your service." Alistair couldn't see his face, but he suspected the man was smirking. It was hard to suppress the flare of hatred he felt when he heard the Howe name. _This man isn't his father_, he reprimanded himself. _He has served the Grey Wardens honorably for years._

"All right," Cybele said curtly, and wordlessly led the way back to the camp.

"I never thought I would see _it_ again," said Shale, when she saw Alistair. "I can't say I'm particularly pleased."

"Nice to see you too, Shale."

"I just said it _wasn't_ nice. I see that its listening skills haven't improved."

Since he had already met Nathaniel, no introductions were necessary, but Cybele formally presented Alistair to the remaining Warden in the party, an elf mage named Gehan. Finally, there was…

"Sten," said Alistair. "Are you…I mean, when did you…? Um, hello," he managed.

The qunari did not look pleased to see him. Then again, Alistair reflected, he had never seen a qunari express pleasure, and wasn't sure what it would be like. Perhaps Sten was actually overjoyed.

"So you have come," Sten said fatalistically, as if Alistair were an ant at a picnic: unwelcome, but inevitable.

"Yes. I am here. Here am I. Good to see you," said Alistair heartily.

Sten made a noncommittal noise.

"I didn't realize you had become a Warden."

"I didn't."

"But you're here."

"Yes."

"I mean, you're here _with other Wardens. Doing Warden things. That_ _only Wardens do."_

"My place is here," said Sten simply.

"Sten volunteered to join us, fighting Darkspawn in the Deep Roads. He has been a great help," said Cybele.

"I have no doubt," said Alistair. A thought occurred to him. As he struggled to banish it, Gehan started coughing violently, holding his sleeve to his face. When he took the cloth away from his mouth, Alistair saw that it was stained with blood.

"I'm sorry," he said in a strained voice. "I think I am going to rest for a little while." He turned to Alistair, "I regret withdrawing so soon after your arrival. Please don't think me rude."

"Nonsense. We'll chat later."

"I'll look forward to it," said Gehan, before succumbing to another bout of coughing. Nathaniel helped him to a tent. Cybele stared after them, looking troubled. Alistair was trying frantically to think of something to break the silence when she spoke, "Alistair, would you mind coming with me, please?"

"Where are we going?"

"Just for a little walk. I don't want to disturb the others."

The camp was in a small cavern where several stone tunnels—dwarf-hewn or natural, Alistair wasn't sure—converged. Cybele chose a path, seemingly at random, and started walking. Her staff glowed brightly, lighting their path.

"Alistair," she said stiffly. She only became that wooden when she was suppressing emotion with great difficulty. He noticed how quickly she had dispensed with calling him "king." Was that a good sign? "You know you can't stay."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"You know why."

"Enlighten me."

"We have too much history. I came here to die in peace, not relive the worst days of my past."

_Ouch_. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm here to fight Darkspawn, nothing more."

"Really."

"Well, I didn't come for the food. Are you really going to try and deny me a good death, Cybele?"

"You have a funny definition of 'good.'"

"I always was the funny one. You were the pretty one."

There. That was a flicker of a smile.

"I wanted to imagine you happy," said Cybele softly. "An old man, surrounded by children and grandchildren. Not bleeding out here in the dark, on the end of some Darkspawn blade. You have a family. You should be with them."

"It's because of my family that I came," Alistair admitted. "I didn't want them to see what I would become. Is Gehan…?"

"The taint is claiming him," Cybele confirmed. "He doesn't have long now. I don't think he thought he would last this long. But the Darkspawn haven't been able to get the best of us yet."

It all happened very fast. A terrible bellow rent the air. Startled, they looked up in time to see saw an ogre lumbering towards them.


	3. Chapter 3

War stories usually revolve around the moments leading up to or following a confrontation. That's because no one can remember the actual fight. "We fought," soldiers say, their memories an amalgam of blood and fear, confusion and rage that can't be distilled into comprehensible words. No matter what strategizing has occurred beforehand in camp, all that exists in the moment of battle is the imperative: kill, or be killed. Alistair did not think as he shoved Cybele beside him and drew his sword, repeating the actions he had been become accustomed to years ago and had never forgotten, and braced himself. Without heavy armor or a shield, there was no way he could withstand the ogre's onslaught for long. _An _alpha, he realized with horror as the thing crashed nearer, sending shockwaves through the ground. It was the hugest of its kind Alistair had ever seen, with mottled skin the color of a drowned corpse and ferociously sharp onyx horns that the creature lowered as it prepared to gore them. Behind him, Cybele was muttering. A bolt of magic shot past him, and the ogre was surrounded in shimmering bars of light. It howled in pain as the bars contracted around it.

"Run!" Cybele cried. They sprinted back down the way they had come.

"It's coming!" shouted Alistair raggedly. To his surprise, Cybele turned and stopped.

"Go. Warn the others. I'll stall it."

"No!"

"GET OUT OF THE WAY," screamed Cybele as ice erupted from her fingers. The ogre slowed but didn't stop until Cybele hit it with a paralyzation hex.

"I'm not leaving without you."

"That's not really an option." A shimmering shield appeared around her. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

She grabbed his hand. His signet ring began to glow brightly. "This will help you see. Now, go."

"But—"

"I don't expect you to leave me here! Get help and come back."

"Will you be all right?"

"Not if you distract me with stupid questions.

Relenting, Alistair began to run. He rounded a corner, and lost sight of Cybele almost immediately. His lungs started to burn. He had only been going a few minutes when he heard a terrible shriek.

"Help us!" shouted Alistair into the darkness. "Come quickly, we need help!" Hoping someone would hear him, he turned and raced back to where he had left Cybele.

The ogre was still standing, but now it was clearly wounded: its many wounds were bleeding profusely and half if its body was blackened and cracked from burns. The air was redolent with burnt flesh. Cybele stood erect before it, her long white hair standing on end as lightning crackled around her before coalescing into a crackling bolt that shot towards the beast, hitting it in the abdomen. The ogre gave a roar, and surged forward, only to fall to its knees. It fixed bleary, rage-filled eyes on Cybele, and began to pound the wall of the tunnel. The stone shuddered under the weight of the blows, and small fragments of rock showered the ground.

Cybele collapsed just as Alistair reached her, and he was able to catch her as she crumpled to the ground.

"Come on," he urged.  
"I can't," she mumbled.

Half dragging, half carrying her, Alistair started to move away. Luckily, the ogre was no longer mobile, and so was easily outrun. It continued to beat the ground, as if frustrated at the escape of its prey. Then, a moment of silence, and a sense of dread before a boulder—apparently dislodged by the ogre's efforts—smashed into the wall beside them. Alistair and Cybele were knocked to the ground, which was lucky, because another, larger missile flew over their heads, missing them narrowly.

"Hah, missed," said Alistair weakly. The ground rumbled and shifted beneath them. He barely had time to panic before the floor of the tunnel fractured, and they slid into the darkness below.

It was a long way down. In fact, had it not been for Cybele, who enshrouded them both with protective magic, they both would have perished from the fall. Which might not have been such a bad thing, Alistair reflected. _At least it would have had the virtue of being quick. _

Cybele hadn't spoken since casting her final spell. Alistair could hear her breathing in the darkness, but the breaths sounded labored and shallow.

"Cybele?"

There was no reply. His ring still glowed, although its light was dimming, and he used it now to survey her prone body. He didn't see a wound, even though she had the look of someone who had lost a great deal of blood. He had never seen her like this before, not even when she had limped out of Denerim after helping to kill the Archdemon.

"Cybele," he said more urgently, shaking her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Alistair," she breathed. It sounded almost tender.

At that, Alistair's fear intensified.

"Oh no you don't," he said. "You don't get to flit off to the Maker and leave me here in a dark cavern to starve to death. You are going to live through this and we are going to die like proper Grey Wardens. Besides, do you think your friends would go to the trouble of rescuing just me? They don't even know me, and I don't think Sten will vouch for me."

When she didn't answer, he began rifling through the pack she had attached to her waist.

"I know you've got a healing poultice in here, or some lyrium dust," said Alistair. "Something, anything. Let me help you." He found a tincture of elfroot and held it to her lips. "Come now, take your medicine," he coaxed as he poured the healing potion down her throat before she lost consciousness.

Alistair took advantage of the light provided by his ring to conduct a rudimentary investigation of the cavern. He could vaguely make out a patch of darkness above that he thought might be the hole through which they had come. Nearby trickled a small stream which seemed to originate from between two rocks; Alistair knelt before them and drank greedily. He traced the perimeter of the cavern, which was roughly elliptical, and perhaps forty feet across. He found a discreet corner in which to relieve himself, then returned to Cybele. She hadn't moved, so he pillowed her head on her cloak, covered her with his own, and sat beside her, keeping vigil. There was no point in doing anything else until she woke up, or until the others came looking for them, whichever happened first.

It seemed like hours before she stirred. At some point, his ring flickered and died, leaving Alistair in darkness. He was just beginning to drowse off when something grabbed his shoulder.

"Holy Andraste," he cried, startled.

"Did I scare you?" Cybele sounded amused.

"I see you're feeling better."

Cybele's staff flared to life. "What happened?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I can get us out of here with magic," Cybele said, after hearing an account of events from Alistair, and investigating the chamber herself by illuminating it with bright flashes of light. "Maybe I could raise you alone," she mused. "However, I'm afraid I would either drop you too soon, or send you up too quickly and smash you into the ceiling."

Alistair took a step backwards. "That's all right," he said. "I'm sure the others will turn up soon."

"You didn't manage to reach the camp, though, did you?"

"No. I thought you'd be mad if I let you die before giving me a proper tongue-lashing."

"I _told _you to leave me be."

"Who's the king here?"

"Nobody, apparently."

"Right. Well, this time you don't have a bunch of lackeys to make sure I do your bidding. And I wasn't going to let you keep me out of the fight again."

"You're being such _a child_."

"_I'm_ the childish one?"

"You're shirking your responsibility as king to come down here and play hero. Or is being king not as important as it once was? There was a time when you were ready to give up everything for a throne that you claimed not even to want," said Cybele bitterly. She was sitting up now. A conjured fire crackled between them, and its flames reflected in Cybele's dark eyes.

"You're being unfair," said Alistair quietly.

Cybele sighed. "You're right, I am. I'm sorry." She closed her eyes. "I'm just very tired."

"I know the feeling."

"I just need a little time to rest. Then there's something I might be able to try."

"We've already discarded the idea where you send me careering around until I end up impaled on a stalactite, right?"

She laughed. "Right. I've thought of something else. Years ago, I spent some time in Kirkwall, and during that time I made the acquaintance of a Dalish mage who practiced a particular brand of nature magic. She could create tendrils of nature magic to ensnare enemies. I might be able to modify her spell to build us a sort of rope. Now if I can just remember what she did…" pulling a small book out of a concealed pocket in the front of her robes, Cybele began to peruse its pages.

"Mmn, yes, and then…? Ahh," she murmured. "Now if I can just estimate the angle of approach, and then multiply that by your approximate speed...How much do you weigh, Alistair?"

"None of your business."

Cybele gave an irritated sigh.

"Oh, all right. Eleven stone."

"You know, you'll die if I calculate incorrectly. Are you willing to die for the sake of your vanity."

"Yes."

"Alistair…"

"All right. Twelve stone."

"_Ahem_,"

"FINE. Thirteen. Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Alistair was smiling, when a thought sobered him. "Cybele," he ventured. She stopped reading and looked at him with eyebrows raised.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Your magic. You could never…I mean, when we fought together before, you would never have been able to kill an ogre unaided. At least, not simply standing before it, lobbing magic at it like that. Then afterwards, you were so weak, as if…as if you had lost a great deal of blood, even though there wasn't a scratch on you."

"Why don't you just go ahead and say it, Alistair."

"Are you using blood magic?"

Cybele met his gaze, unflinching. "Much has changed since we last saw each other, Alistair," she said softly. "I'm not the same person I once was, all those years ago."

"Clearly. You weren't a blood mage, for instance."

"I'm not a blood mage. It's just a little _enhancement_ that allows me to cast more powerful spells for a longer span."

"In exchange for your life."

"I draw upon my life force, yes. Raw lyrium is hardly scarce down here, but we have to return to the city for potions or refining equipment. This allows me to go longer without having to replenish my supplies."

"What if you just drop dead in the middle of casting a spell?"

"Isn't that why I'm here? Why you're here? Didn't you just give me some speech mere hours ago about dying with honor and upholding tradition? Ah, I suppose it is one thing to pay lip service to an idea, another to actually live it. Strange, Alistair, I never thought you of all people lacked the courage of your convictions."

"I don't. It's one thing to think of myself dying. I don't know if I could bear to see you die."

"What do you care about me?"

"Do you have to ask? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I _hoped_ I would find you? Did it ever occur to you that if I had known, all those years ago, how things would turn out, that I might have decided that losing you was too high a price to pay?"

"As if I would have let you throw everything away. You think I don't know what you did was necessary, and moreover, _right_? That didn't stop me from hating you."

"I never hated you."

"I did what I had to, Alistair. To survive. Love for you would have festered and eaten away at me, like a rotting limb. In those circumstances, the only thing to do is cut the corruption away. What is left behind is no longer whole, but it is viable."

"You think I didn't suffer too?"

"On the contrary, I hoped you did."

"Well, I did. If it had been a wound I would have died of it."

"Alistair, why are we doing this? What's done is done. We did what we had to do under the circumstances. We're not the only ones whose lives were destroyed by the Blight. There are many who lost fathers, sisters, children, lovers. Our pain isn't special. Even if it were, it's too late to change anything now."

_I know that's the refrain you've been telling yourself for years_, he thought. _I know that because that's what I thought too, whenever I thought the pain would overwhelm me. Because we gave up too much, and we knew it, and we did it anyway. _"You say that, but you still look so angry."

"I'm angry at myself more than I am at you. It's been twenty years; I thought that finally I didn't have to feel anything anymore. Then you show up out of nowhere and all that hard-won composure disappeared, and all I could think…." She shook her head, "It's not important. I had a life, and it was hardly wasted. How many people can boast that they saved the world? Literally saved the world. I can't regret having done that."

"Was there ever anyone else?"

"If you're asking if I have remained chaste since your abandonment of me, the answer is no."

"I'm glad," said Alistair. "I wouldn't have wanted you to be alone."

"You weren't, of course. You had your pretty Orlesian princess."

"Mévéna doesn't hold a candle to you, and never did, but she was pleasant enough."

Cybele snorted. "You hardly do her justice. Don't worry, I'm not jealous. At least, not of her looks. She gave you a child—something I could never have done."

"Maric is a good lad, and he'll be a fine king, but he's not my son. Not by blood, at any rate."


	4. Chapter 4

"What are you talking about?" asked Cybele, stunned.

"Mévéna and I were married for several years before she became pregnant with Maric. During that time she had two miscarriages. We were in despair when Arl Eamon's son arrived at court to act as a liaison for the Circle."

"Connor Guerrin?" asked Cybele in disbelief. "But he was just a boy."

"He had been a boy when we first made his acquaintance, yes. In the years that passed, he had grown into a young man. By the time he arrived, he was no younger than you and I, when we met. I am told the ladies of the court generally considered him to be quite handsome."

"So he and your wife…"

"I didn't figure it out immediately; Maric looks very much like his mother. It wasn't until later that I realized Maric couldn't be my son." What a relief to finally confide in someone, after all these years, to state frankly facts which would have undermined his reign and sent the court into upheaval had their veracity been acknowledged. There had been rumors, of course, but the king's calm demeanor and tender regard for his son were hardly what one would expect of a man betrayed. Besides, it always seemed that the worst gossip-mongers had always found themselves heaped with so many honors that they couldn't help but praise the king and his family at all times, or else they disappeared from court, electing to retire permanently to their estates or—tragically—slain by bandits or victims of some unfortunate accident. Alistair shuddered at that thought. Sometimes he wondered if being king had corrupted more fully than the taint in his veins ever could. Anora had known this; she had told him as much shortly before her death. He had come to her cell to beg her one last time to rescind her claim to the throne, and she had laughed at him.

"I imagine that being king is wreaking havoc with your self-image, Alistair," she said. "You see yourself as a force for good, do you not? A champion, if not a hero. Yet, what good man plots to kill a woman who has done him no harm?"

"I wouldn't say 'no' harm. There was the small matter of your public betrayal at the Landsmeet, where you sided with your father to the detriment of Ferelden."

"My father would have fought bravely for his country and his people."

"Only a Grey Warden can defeat an Archdemon."

Anora made an angry noise. "All right, I'll admit it: I was _wrong_. I had no way of knowing; you Grey Wardens are so confoundedly secretive. What do you want? He was _my father_, and a decorated general. I thought I was choosing an experienced warrior over untested upstarts with questionable motives. Can you honestly tell me that, had you been in my place, you wouldn't have done the same?"

"Anyway, I'm not 'plotting' to kill you."

"No, but your advisors are, and they will prove convincing in the end, I have no doubt. Because while the good man does not contrive to kill innocents, the _great_ man knows he must eliminate those who stand in his way."

"You really are your father's daughter."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

She shoved the parchment he'd brought for her to sign—it was inscribed with a pledge to forsake all claim to the throne, on behalf of herself, her family, and any future offspring—back across the table at him.

"Take this away," she spat. "As long as I live, I am a queen."

"How did you know Maric wasn't yours?" Cybele asked.

"Remember when I joined you in Amaranthine? Anyone who did the math would have realized that Maric was probably conceived in the two months I was absent. Cybele insisted he was born early, but the midwife knew he was a healthy, full-term baby. We had to pay quite a bit to ensure her silence. Luckily she had some Orlesian ancestry, and so didn't harbor that implacable hatred for them that many Fereldens had back then."

"You seem pretty sanguine about the fact that your wife had an illegitimate child with another man."

"I am now. At the time, I was murderous, so I left. I had to pour my energy into things like fighting Darkspawn or hunting blood mages so that I didn't strangle Mévéna where she slept. Connor returned the Circle, since the Revered Mother would not allow a mage to remain permanently installed at court. I continued to spend as much time as possible out on campaign. As the years passed, however, and there were no more children, I came to understand two things: one, that the Therin bloodline would end with me. Two, that a father gives more to a son than his blood. Make no mistake, Maric is my son, and I love him as such. I have taught him everything I know."

"And Mévéna?"

"I forgave her. Ours was an arranged marriage, not a love match. Adultery is a matter of course in the Orlesian court, or so I have heard—permissible so long as it never becomes obvious. Whatever else she was, Mévéna was a good queen and a sound administrator. She had grown up watching over her mother's shoulder as the empress and her ministers governed a kingdom."

"And entertained a parade of lovers, apparently."

"You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

"I wasn't _married_, Alistair."

"But I was. Although not at the time, it's true. Is that what made it all right?"

Cybele looked surprised and angry that he would dare to mention their last meeting. After all, she had made him swear never to speak of it again. It had been shortly after the end of the Blight; Cybele had just arrived in Amaranthine, freshly appointed Warden-Commander of the territory. Alistair had followed with a small group of retainers with the intention of performing a dedication ceremony, officially conferring Vigil's Keep and its surrounding lands to the Grey Wardens.

"This is highly unusual," Eamon had said, upon hearing of Alistair's travel plans. "Do you really think it wise for the king to personally go to such a far-flung arling, especially at such a perilous time? There have been tales of Darkspawn preying on travelers. A lesser official could perform this function just as well, without anyone taking offense. Besides, you are needed here in Denerim."

Alistair was adamant. "I am a Grey Warden. I have not forgotten, nor will I let my people forget, of the importance of their service. And of their sacrifice. I will not be gone long; there will be plenty of time to sort things out when I return. Until then, I trust you to act in my stead."

"I know this has been hard, Alistair," said Eamon.

"Do you?" Alistair laughed bitterly. "Do you really? Correct me if I'm wrong, but tonight, won't you return home to your wife and son? Tell me, to whom do you owe the gift that is the continued existence of your family?"

Eamon sighed. "I'm not going to argue with you, your Majesty."

"That's right, you're not. I'm going to Amaranthine, and that's final."

On the road, they were joined by a small contingent of Templars in search of a rogue mage. He and his retinue arrived at night, in the middle of a heavy storm. Rain had made a swampy mess of the roads, and all the buildings his party passed were silent and dark. They rode on, swords drawn, until the hulk of Vigil's Keep rose before them, its various outbuildings huddled around the stone walls of the main fortress. It was quiet; no one hailed the approaching company. Then Alistair smelled it: the sulfurous odor of Darkspawn blood.

At the inner gate of the keep, they found the assembled survivors. They were a miserable lot, pale-faced and shaking. Most were wounded.

"Where is she?" shouted Alistair. "Where is the Warden-Commander?"

"Inside," whispered one of the men. "She killed the Darkspawn in the courtyard, but there were more inside. They have the Seneschal. She went to find him."

"And you let her go alone, you cowards? You call yourselves Grey Wardens?" Alistair hadn't meant to start screaming, but now it felt as if the words were being ripped out of him. His own voice sounded harsh and alien to him, almost unintelligible. "YOU LET HER GO IN THERE ALONE TO DIE. IT IS YOU WHO SHOULD DIE. I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF FOR YOUR COWARDICE."

"Your Majesty," said a woman pleadingly. She was thin and slightly stooped, her graying hair tightly braided. "Your Majesty, please. The Warden-Commander is not alone. She had a companion, a warrior. We offered our aid, but she insisted that we stay here in safety."

"Who are you?" Alistair demanded.

The woman gave a low curtsey. "I am Mistress Woolsey, your Majesty, sent from Weisshaupt by the First Warden to help our new Commander manage her coffers." Her voice was low and even, and Alistair was able to calm himself.

"My apologies, Mistress. You must understand I am quite distraught to find the Keep in chaos, despoiled by Darkspawn." He gestured to his men. "There's not a moment to lose! We join Cybele in the Keep! Ser Rylock, are you and your Templars with us?"

"We are, your Majesty."

Alistair's lieutenant approached. "Your Majesty," he said. There was something in the man's tone that Alistair didn't like. Sure enough, his next words were, "If your Majesty could just stay here, where we can protect you, the rest will join Lady Cybele inside…"

"Lieutenant, am I your king?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good. Then show your loyalty to the crown. Because if you do not, or if you get in my way, Andraste help me, I will cut you down where you stand."

"What's all the fuss?"

When Alistair saw her there, leaning heavily on her staff, covered with blood and offal, all he wanted to do was clutch her to him and weep with joy. His throat ached, as if he were trying to swallow a stone. It took every ounce of the discipline he had learned, first as a Templar, then as a Warden, to restrain himself, to remain motionless as she limped toward the group.

After a brief, shocked pause, those gathered began to whoop and cheer as they surged towards their savior. The new Commander greeted them with a haggard smile and allowed them to manhandle her, although Alistair saw her wince every time someone pumped her hand or patted her shoulders.

Her smile faded when she saw Alistair, and she addressed him with a stiff courtesy that hurt him more than would have disdain. He barely heard her words, simply agreed to everything she said, all the while trying to communicate with his eyes the desperate love, the ecstatic despair that infused his being. This was how he had been able to let her leave Denerim in the months previous, because he knew that she would be close, had made sure of it by sending her to Amaranthine.

There was no chance to talk further before Cybele was swept away, the demands of duty overtaking her before she had time even to finish wiping the blood from her face.

That night, Alistair was awake long after the exhausted survivors and troops had gone to sleep. The Keep was silent, but for the familiar night sounds of crickets chirping and leaves rustling. The rain had stopped, but the moon remained invisible behind an opaque screen of clouds.

Quietly, Alistair slipped out of his room and made his way through the halls to where a servant had told him Cybele's quarters were located. The light coming from underneath the door signaled to him that she was still awake. He knocked softly.

The door opened almost immediately, and she stood before him, clad only in a long linen shift, a blanket clutched around her shoulders. Her hair had been washed and combed back, little tendrils forming around her face as it started to dry. Color flooded into her face when she recognized her visitor.

"Alistair," she whispered.

"Cybele," his voice cracked. "May I come in?"

"You probably shouldn't," she said, but made no move to retreat or shut the door.

"You're probably right. Are you going to send me away?" he asked. "I don't have the strength to leave on my own."

"I…"

"Kiss me, Cybele. Just one kiss."

She was in his arms, her mouth covering his, pressing her body convex against him. Without thinking, he pushed her into the room and closed the door behind them.

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Cybele said, recovering. "If I recall, _you_ were far more unyielding in the face of wrongdoing than I ever was. You wanted to kill Zevran, remember? And you wouldn't even _entertain_ the notion of suffering Loghain to live. Then there was that business with Anora…"

"Zevran tried to kill us _first_! So did Loghain, you will recall, and that was after he had committed regicide and started a civil war. Maker above, am I to be criticized for having a modicum of self-preservation? Just because Grey Wardens have shortened lifespans doesn't mean we need to do our enemies a favor by walking into their swords. As for Anora…" Alistair sighed heavily. "I never wanted Anora to die. Believe me when I say I exhausted every other course of action first. In the end, though, she left me no choice. She was never going to stop vying for the throne."

"You could have banished her. Or made her a Grey Warden."

"She had become a rallying point for my enemies. Cybele, you once told me of the warring factions in the Circle of Magi. Royal courts are much the same. No fewer than three coups were averted before I finally gave into my advisors' insistence that Anora be killed."

"I suppose a faithless spouse is a minor worry, compared to that."

"I told you, I forgave Mévéna. It was that, or become completely embittered. She never said anything, but I think she knew I suspected. I don't think she took and subsequent lovers, but if she managed it so discreetly that I never even heard a whisper."

"I imagine you were too busy deploying your spies after me," said Cybele tartly.

"Can you blame me? My Warden-Commander abruptly disappeared after only a few years on the job, abandoning the arling she had been granted and leaving her homeland in favor of…well, that was the question. A king has a right to know."

"You act as if I just deserted my post. I resigned! I even wrote you a letter. Which, I'll remind you, is more than you deserved; the Grey Wardens—"

"…Swear fealty to no one, I know. Some letter that was. Two measly lines explaining that you were leaving; you didn't explain where, or why you went, and all right, _fine_, perhaps my interest wasn't strictly kingly. When I went to Amaranthine to question the other Grey Wardens, they were very reticent about the whole thing. Especially that Anders, he just scowled at me the whole time….What's so funny?"

"Ah, Anders. He reminded me of you, you know. You two had the same nose, the same chin, the same bone structure. That's why I liked him. One of the reasons. He had brown eyes, though."

"So you and he…?"

She smiled archly.

"I don't think he looked like me at all," Alistair protested.

Cybele ignored him. "It's a pity, what happened to him."

"What about Sten?"

"What _about_ Sten?"

"Did you and he ever…?"

"What? No!"

"Oh come. Don't tell me you never thought about it."

"…"

"You did!"

"Not _seriously_. Sometimes it gets…confusing…when you spend a lot of time with someone. You can't tell how you really feel."

"It's just, he's so _devoted_ to you."

"Shut up. We're friends. We're companions. He's like my brother."

"What about Nathaniel? Or that other mage?"

"Even if I wanted to, I don't think that would be a possibility."

"Why not?"  
"They have each other."

"Oh? _Oh_."

There was a pause. Cybele seemed to be entertaining some inner debate. "You could have, you know," she said finally.

"Could have what?"

"Had a child."

"What are you talking about?"

"Before the battle, Morrigan came to me. She offered me a deal."

"What kind of deal? And what would Morrigan have to do with me having a child?"

"There was a ritual. She offered us a loophole, a way to kill the Archdemon but avoid sacrificing a Grey Warden. She wanted you to lie with her so that from your union she could conceive a child. She planned to use the child as a sort of…vessel to capture the essence of the Archdemon, or—as she put it—the Old God. She claimed that its soul, born anew, would not be tainted."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her that you would never agree. She argued that if I really loved you, I would do this to save you. I said that I would never let anything happen to you, but that I wouldn't be party to creating an abomination, either."

"So that's why she left. You never told me."

"There was no need for you to know."

"But there was; it was my decision to make."

"And would you have done this? Would you have had…congress with Morrigan in order to create a demon baby? She wouldn't have let you see the child, you know. Part of the deal was that you were to renounce any claim to it, and she was to raise it on her own, far away enough that we'd never reach her."

"You still should have told me."

"I'm sorry, Alistair. It's safe to say there were other things on my mind at the time. Are you really saying you would have participated in Morrigan's ritual?"

"Probably not," Alistair admitted. "Still. I wish I had been able to make the choice."

Cybele shrugged. "Morrigan could have gone directly to you."

"Maybe she thought a fellow mage would better understand. Or maybe she thought you would be able to overcome my scruples and convince me to consent. The funny thing is, Morrigan miscalculated."

"Oh?"

"If she had told me I could save you, I would have done anything she asked."

"But I didn't die."

"Well, I didn't know that at the time, did I? I was sick with worry. I had already promised myself I was going to take the final blow, and then you…you _left_ me. You kept me _a prisoner_."

"I _protected_ you. Let's be honest, Alistair. I was never supposed to have survived this long. I was nothing—a no-account mage suspected of practicing blood magic. According to Chantry law, the Templars should have executed me for helping a blood mage escape."

"But you didn't know he was a blood mage," Alistair, who knew the story, interrupted.

"Do you think that matters to them? A mage is a mage is an abomination. By all rights, I should have died then; I didn't only because Duncan intervened. Yes, he invoked the Right of Conscription, but how could they really object when it was clear that I would die fighting the Blight? I had barely changed out of my apprentice robes. I had no business battling Archdemons, but I no longer had a place in the real world, either. Unlike _you_, the son of a king. It didn't really matter who you were—as long as you were not a rapacious villain, which you weren't. Far more important was what you represented: a young new king, rising from the ashes of Ostagar. A king whom the people would love because of his deeds, and whom the nobles would respect, because of his blood. You just needed to live long enough to take the throne."

"Which, I might add, I never wanted. Another decision foisted upon me, by you. You know, _you_ should have been king, or queen, as it were. You certainly have a knack for controlling other people's lives."

"I made some hard decisions. I'm not even going to claim they were right, although if you had asked me a few years ago, I would have vigorously insisted they were. I'm not even going to claim they had the best of all possible outcomes. I did my best; perhaps it was not very good, but I will say this: you were a good king, Alistair. And, if what you say about Maric is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, you have secured another good king to take your place."

"See, and you can make speeches as well. I'm glad you don't think me a rapacious villain."

Cybele laughed. She had the same laugh she'd always had, sweet and rich as an expensive liqueur.

"I suppose I'm sorry, as well," continued Alistair.

"For what?"

"Everything. For leaving you. For letting you leave. For not killing the Archdemon."

"Think of all we _did_ achieve. Long after our names have been forgotten by all but the most erudite of scholars, after our bones have crumbled and our lives have become myths, people will remember that in Ferelden, two Grey Wardens overcame the odds and stopped a Blight," Cybele intoned.

"Our enshrinement in the annals of posterity—is that supposed to be some sort of consolation?"

Cybele shrugged. "Might as well try and glean some comfort from it, because that's all we're going to get. It's not like we can go back and change what happened."

"Isn't it funny? It always seems like you should be able to go back. I spent a long time reliving moments, doing this or that differently. Keeping you with me, no matter what." His voice sounded raw.

"Oh, Alistair. Who knows if what we had could have withstood the strain of monarchy? Our feelings were born out of desperation, cultivated during brief lulls in a war that neither of us thought we would survive. Could such a thing have been sustained during peacetime without being crushed by the twin weights of duty and honor? I don't think so. Isn't it better, really, to cherish bittersweet dreams than be crushed by the reality of unequivocal disappointment?"

"It isn't, and if you really believed that, you would be able to talk about our _love_ instead of hinting about feelings. 'Feelings' are what my bladder has when I get up in the morning. I loved you, Cybele," he said roughly. "You were my world, my one constant, the one thing that made every other horrible thing endurable…and then you were snatched away from me."

"It was your choice…"

"_You_ chose, Cybele. You. All along, it's been you. You're worse than the bloody Maker. _You_ volunteered me to be king, _you_ refused Morrigan's ritual of my behalf, _you_ prevented me from carrying out my duty as a Grey Warden, and just now, you didn't even want to let me die. I can't do a damn thing without permission from Lady Cybele."

"Do you think I _wanted_ you to be king? It was the only way I could see to unify Ferelden…or have you forgotten we had the small thing of THE BLIGHT to contend with? I'm sorry you were unhappy that I left, but what was I supposed to do? To be with you, and yet be denied you would have been self-annihilation. Perhaps that sort of annihilating is real love, I don't know. All I know is that staying with you would have killed me. Leaving you nearly did."

_But you didn't have to go_, Alistair thought.


End file.
